William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

the lunacy of gambling.
    And all the thoughts filling her mind did not succeed in driving out the image of the other murdered woman, the artists’ model whose only sin had been seeing who had killed Elissa. No rationalization could excuse her death. The thought that Kristian might have killed her was intolerable, and she thrust it away, refusing even to allow the words into her mind.
    There were things to be done. She closed the newspaper, ate the last of her toast and ignored the cold tea in her cup. Before the trial opened she had one visit to make which was going to require all her concentration and self-control. She had no status whatever in the matter. She was not a relative, employer or representative of anyone. To attend every day with no duty, no reason beyond friendship, and to be obliged to be nothing but a helpless onlooker would be excruciating. If she were there representing the hospital governors, who very naturally had a concern for Kristian as his employers, and for their own reputation because of that, then her presence was explained, even her intervention, if any opportunity presented itself.
    To do this she must go and see Fermin Thorpe, and persuade him of the necessity. It was an interview she dreaded. She loathed the man, and now she had not her usual armor of assurance, or the indifference to what he thought which her social position normally provided. She needed something only he could grant her. How could she ask him for it while hiding her vulnerability so he did not sense it and take his chance to be revenged for years of imagined affront?
    The longer she thought about it the more daunting it became. She had no time to waste, the trial would begin tomorrow. Better she go now, before too much imagination robbed her of what courage she had left.
    She walked out of the dining room across the hall and went upstairs to prepare herself, collect her costume jacket and the right hat.
    The journey out to Hampstead took her over an hour. Progress was sporadic because of the traffic and the drifting fog, and she had far too much time to think and play the scene in her mind a dozen times, none of them less than painful.
    When she arrived at the hospital, she told her coachman to wait for her as she did not intend to remain, then was obliged to sit for nearly an hour while Fermin Thorpe interviewed a new young doctor with, apparently, a view to employing him. She kept her temper because she needed to. On another occasion, as a governor herself, she could simply have interrupted. Today she could not afford to antagonize him.
    When Thorpe finally showed the young doctor out, smiling and sharing a joke, he turned to her with satisfaction shining in his face. He hated Kristian, because Kristian was a better doctor than he, and they both knew it. Kristian did not defer to him. If he thought differently—which he often did in moral and social matters—he said so, and Thorpe had lost the issue, for which, in his stiff, frightened mind, there was no forgiveness. Now he was on the brink of getting rid of Kristian forever, and the taste of victory was sweet on his lips. He was going to be proved right before the world in every bitter or critical thing he had ever said about Kristian, beyond even his most far-fetched dreams.
    “Good morning, Lady Callandra,” he said cheerfully. He was almost friendly; he could afford to be. “A bit chilly this morning, but I hope you are well?”
    She must playact as never before. “Very,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “The cold does not trouble me. I hope you are well also, Mr. Thorpe, in spite of the burden of responsibility upon you?”
    “Oh, very well,” he said forcefully, opening his office door for her and standing aside for her to enter. “I believe we will rise above our temporary difficulties. Young Dr. Larkmont looks very promising. Good surgical experience, nice manner, keen.” He met her eyes boldly.
    “Good,” she responded. “I am sure your judgment is excellent. It always has been. You have never allowed an incompetent man to practice here.”
    “Ah . . . well . . .” He was not sure whether to mention Kristian or not, to argue with her and let himself down, or agree with her and box himself into a corner of approving Kristian, even implicitly. “Yes,” he finished. “My task . . . my . . .”
    “Responsibility,” she finished for him. “The reputation of the Hampstead Hospital rests largely upon the excellence of our